The Librarian and His Wife
by Edward J. Atkinson
August 7, 2007 — Published in Pithy Tales
Pat-pat-pat sounded Michael Denton’s brown shoes. Swoosh-foosh swished his umbrella as he swung it frontwards and backwards. “Good morning!” called his mouth as he cheered hellos to the passing strangers who did not return his greeting.
The library came closer to Michael as his shoes pat-pat-patted along. The library was a grand sight among the tightly packed buildings. Michael paused, as he did every day, to drink in the pleasurable atmosphere of his favorite building in town. It was adorned with hanging potted plants, an exceptionally wide stone staircase, books beyond dusty windows, and an inviting doorway made from some of the darkest wood. It was his library.
Michael smiled to his assistant in the lobby. “Ah, Mrs. Pots. I trust you had a fine weekend?” Sylvia Pots, a longtime friend of Michael’s, grinned. “Oh yes, delightful. Coffee?”
Michael was fond of Sylvia. In fact, there was no one whose company he enjoyed more. Sylvia was a dear and constant companion. Sylvia was, of course, his wife.
For the past 11 years, Michael had owned and operated the only private library in the state of Massachusetts. 9 years ago, when he married Sylvia Pots, a woman of refined literary taste, she took a position in the library. To avoid scrutiny or a public scandal from hiring his wife to the only available position, he referred to his wife by her maiden name (Pots, that is). Of course, the entire town knew of their marital relations prior to her hiring and calling Sylvia “Mrs. Pots” had became more of a running joke than a preventative measure.
“I think coffee would be delightful,” Michael replied. He slipped into his study, dropped his belongings, and gazed out the window. Blue sky and wispy clouds. “Did you walk today?” he called into the main room.
“Here’s your coffee,” Sylvia said as she breezed into the study and rested the white mug on one of the few open spaces on his desk. She began stacking tattered dark blue and maroon notebooks and piling a mess of Post-It notes with scribbled notes. “I did walk today. It’s quite nice out.”
“Thanks, dear,” said Michael. “I would have come in earlier, but I’m afraid there were some errands that couldn’t wait.” Michael sat down behind his slightly more organized but mostly messy desk as Sylvia returned to the lobby.
The library
Michael was a busy man. Sylvia was a busy woman. The 11 year-old library was an enterprise wholly incapable of remaining afloat financially, which is why Michael and Sylvia were so busy. Michael had six books in print — five books of original fairy tales and one book on the importance of cheese — and was working on several more serious works. Sylvia was a notable freelance writer for national and international periodicals. Her name sometimes helped them secure a room in booked hotels. Their collective income was used to subsidize the only steady aspect of the library: its debt.
The library was beautiful. The lobby resembled a cathedral with a high-arched ceiling peppered with skylights. Sylvia’s oak desk occupied the center of the hardwood floor, prominently showcasing a coffee pot and plate of scones for library visitors. The entrance to each of the four building wings was covered by a heavy satin curtain with tassels and trim. Behind these, each book shelf was so high and packed with books that sliding ladders had been built into each one, reaching as high as some skylights. In the walls and behind the plump chairs and books were secret passageways and nooks and crannies connecting the wings where voracious readers and writers could steal away and consume hours and hours with words.
Readers began arriving and Sylvia greeted them. “Good morning, come in. Now. What might you be looking for today?” Michael heard Sylvia’s voice echo from the lobby. She had a nice voice, and it was pleasant to hear her speak. This is why she greeted the visitors. Michael, however, was not paying attention. For on his desk was something he was certain he had never seen before.
A particularly dangerous something
It was quite small, about the size of a gerbil, and orange and red. It had no defined shape and did not appear to be solid. It fluttered and flittered in a dazzling manner catching to the eye. He reached out his finger and poked it, quickly withdrawing his arm: it was white hot!
Before he could really think about this extremely odd “thing” on his desk, it leapt (although it did not have legs) onto his mess of Post-It notes and they erupted in fire. “No, stop!” shouted Michael, as he grabbed a blue notebook and swatted at the flames. In a matter of seconds, the fire was out.
But the gerbil-sized orange-red fluttering-flittering thing that had caused the fire was already on the move. It slithered as if it was slimy across the desk and, with a quick flick, was on top of the blue notebook. As Michael missed a slap at the “thing”, another flick, and it was on his head.
His entire head of hair burst into a hot flame. Lunging out of his study, Michael bellowed, “SYLVIA! MY HAIR IS – AGHH!” Sylvia, Michael’s dear and constant companion, immediately recognized Michael’s brown shoes beneath the smoke and fire that was obscuring her husband’s head. Grabbing the closest liquid, Sylvia ran to Michael and emptied ten cups of piping hot coffee on his head.
What had once been a cheerful and upbeat Michael was now a smoldering, hairless, and coffee- stained version of his former self. Michael was shocked and speechless. So, he pointed in the direction of his study. Like its owner, his study had undergone a sudden change of appearance. Despite an open door, it was impossible for Sylvia to see inside. Of course, this means that smoke was pouring through the door like a chimney.
Whatever had so quickly incinerated Michael’s hair was having its way with the notebooks, Post-Its, and highly flammable wood construction of the study. Sylvia quickly called into the wings for the visitors to leave the building. Children and adults scrambled with puzzled looks on their faces. As the last visitor exited, a hot flame kicked out through the smoky study and sheeted up the wall. The air turned gray and specks of black appeared on the ceiling. The door frame turned into charcoal, the paint peeled, and the heavy satin curtains smoldered. And as the librarian and his wife suffered in blank shock, the destruction stopped as abruptly as it had started. Wafting out the front entrance, the smoke and burnt odor slowly filtered out of the library, leaving a nasty smell and an even nastier surprise.
A swashbuckling surprise
Out from what was once the study stepped a man sporting swashbuckler’s attire and wild, pointed facial hair. He possessed, according to his swagger, a swashbuckler’s attitude. He also possessed, according to his enormous build, a lot of strength. “And what,” he loudly spoke, “is the meaning of all this?”
Michael Denton and Sylvia Pots were not stupid people. They were fairly brilliant. At this time, however, they experienced a stupefaction which, in straightforward terms, means that they had no idea what the swashbuckler’s question meant.
“Are you stupid?” asked the stranger. Due in great part to the previous paragraph, we are already aware that indeed the librarian and his wife were most certainly not stupid.
“I’m sorry,” Sylvia responded slowly, “but I’m not sure I understand.” The stranger swaggered, strutted, and threw out his huge chest all at once, and said, “Of course you don’t. Mrs. Pots, correct?”
“That is my name.”
The stranger continued, “I do apologize for the study, but I’m afraid my marvelous entrance,” and here he winked at them, “was necessary to make a point. I am clearly in control of the discussion we are about to have and you will do what I tell you to do. I can burn a lot more than books and studies.”
A bit irritated by the nature of their uninvited guest, Sylvia and Michael asked simultaneously, “What’s your name?”
The stranger, clearly proud of what he was about to say, said, “You cannot pronounce my name in your tongue, human. But since you are so curious.” His face suddenly contorted and he stuck his tongue out towards the ceiling. It was a long flame, licking and snapping in the air. A deep, crackling growl emitted from his throat as the tongue-flame burst into explosions of bold colors and striking movements.
The stranger fell into a rude, bad guy belly laugh while Sylvia glowered at him. Michael began, “Look, why don’t you just take a seat and – “
“NOW, NOW!” the stranger shouted, “If you really must have something you can twist your feeble tongues around, I’ve been referred to as Brutus Prowdman before.” He chuckled at Sylvia and Michael, feeling it pointless to try to communicate any further with them. He sneered at them, as if they were children.
A declaration of the Prowd sort
And then Brutus remembered why he had made his marvelous entrance, which might be better described as an awfully destructive entrance. “It is by official decree of the Almighty and Powerful and Glorious and Great Brutus Prowdman,” he said with a boom, “that I, Brutus Prowdman, hereby declare that this library, now under the direction of Brutus Prowdman, will stock only works that extol the infinitely extensive virtue and benevolence of Brutus Prowdman, who just so happens to be me, Brutus Prowdman.”
Brutus took a moment, as he had just boomed the entire previous paragraph in one breath, and then continued.
“I shall turn this mongrel place into a center for studying the best and brightest topic on earth.”
Michael and Sylvia looked puzzled.
“Me, of course!” boomed Brutus.
There was a pause, as is wont to occur after such a ridiculous speech. And then Michael smiled. And the smile became a chuckle that turned into a chortle that fell way to hearty guffaws and whoops of laughter. Sylvia joined with a grin that became a giggle that surged into roars and howls of frivolity.
Brutus butted in loudly: “EXCUSE ME!” The librarian and his wife went silent except for a renegade giggle from Sylvia that was unsuccessfully muffled. “I was already convinced of your stupidity and my superiority over you inferior beings,” pontificated Brutus, “You didn’t have to prove it any further.”
Pulling himself together, Michael stood up with a small discharge of ash and spoke quietly to the large intruder. “So you wish to turn my library into a print shop for propaganda,” he said, “that will inform the public of your perfection and exemplary character? And you’ll be King of the World?”
“I would call it education, not propaganda,” said Brutus, “but, yes. Everybody wants to admire me. And of course! For who is greater or better or more perfect than Brutus Prowdman?”
“That,” Michael responded with a poorly hid smile, “really is quite funny.”
A terrifying transformation
Brutus did not see the humor. He did see that Michael was not impressed by the speech. Brutus was already irritated, so he became inflamed with rage and, as one might guess, became literally inflamed. His swashbuckler clothing disintegrated as Brutus transformed into a moving, living thing of flame. This time, he was a lot bigger. In fact, he was 10 feet tall!
“You dare mock me, you insolent book lover!” As he broke into resounding rants and terrible tantrums, the hall echoed with his voice and smelled of his smoke. “Twerp! Ingrate! Human! Do you think you are greater than I?”
There really wasn’t too much funny about Brutus now, because he was a very hot and very large fire-thing who was very serious about his threats. “No, I don’t think I’m greater!” shouted Michael up to the 10-foot tall monster. This was true, for Michael was a humble man. And he was not blind to the fact that he could be squashed at any moment.
Both he and Sylvia started walking rapidly backwards away from the intense heat and smoke. Unfortunately, they reached an opposing wall that soon put an end to their retreat. Brutus, in his anger, darted towards them, setting Sylvia’s desk and one of the satin curtains on fire as he swooped past. “You know what?” he menaced, “You’re useless to me. I’ll take your library and make it mine, without any pesky librarians. COME BACK HERE!”
Brutus was shouting, again. Michael and Sylvia had disappeared from his view. They had ducked behind a curtain, slid behind a chair, and snuck into one of the secret passageways that connected the library wings.
“What are we going to do?” gasped Sylvia as she scurried forwards. “Well,” Michael breathed, “something. I’m not sure what.”
They moved further down the tunnel and popped out into one of the wings. They both searched wildly around, looking for something that might rid them of Brutus. Unfortunately, when a person doesn’t know what he’s looking for, finding it can be quite hard. Two wings over, they heard a large phoom-psp-shhh sound. Brutus was setting one of the curtains on fire, as well as a fair number of books and poofy chairs. Brutus was searching for Michael and Sylvia.
PHOOM-psp-shhh came the sound. Brutus was one wing closer and time was short.
“Michael, I think…” Sylvia’s voice trailed off. This was no time for chit-chat. It was a time for hard thinking. And if that didn’t work, it was a time for running very fast.
Brutus burst into the room with the loudest PHOOM-PSP-SHHH of them all. “OK, kids. Game’s up. It’s the end of your road, and your library is mine.”
Without thinking, Michael grabbed a hefty book and threw it as hard as he could at Brutus. The book sailed through the air, slammed against Brutus’ massive chest, and burst into flames.
“Ha-ha-ha! You are foolish, man.” Brutus carelessly swatted at the cinders and ashes, formerly pages, that floated downwards.
Sylvia picked up a scone and aimed at Brutus’ eye. She missed, which is unfortunate, and it hit him on the shoulder. “Mmm, thank you, this looks delicious,” said Brutus as he ate the scone. “And now,” he started, “I’m afraid, I’ve had enough of your antics.”
“For joy to my heart is the proud part”
Michael’s and Sylvia’s brains whirred, stretching for an answer. At this point, they couldn’t even run. Michael’s head hurt and Sylvia’s did too. There was nothing. There was no answer, there was no hope. This was it.
“So now,” Brutus said with a flare of drama, “I will kill you.” Brutus sucked in his breath and began turning his left arm into a giant fireball.
Without thinking, Michael grabbed another hefty book and took aim at Brutus. But then he remembered what had happened the last time and suddenly realized that not thinking and throwing books was not a successful course of action. As he lowered the book, it fell open and his eyes caught a few lines.
Brutus’ huge left arm spat fire. The ceiling was black and many of the shelves contained more ashes than books. Brutus roared with laughter as he swung it upwards, about to bring it crashing down to destroy Michael and Sylvia and the whole library wing…
Michael began reading those lines that had caught his eye as fast as he could. It was all he could think to do. “I gazed awhile, on her cold smile.” Even faster. “Too cold — too cold for me — ”
Brutus flinched and his arm did not crash down. He momentarily froze.
Michael continued with excitement, “There pass’d, as a shroud, a fleecy cloud, and I turn’d away to thee, Proud Evening Star — ”
“…don’t…” Brutus stammered.
Michael did. “In thy glory afar, and dearer thy beam shall be.” Brutus’ seemed less like a giant on fire and more like a sorry-faced swashbuckler. “For joy to my heart is the proud part Thou bearest in Heav’n at night —”
In a cloud of smoke, Brutus’ left arm disappeared. “No!” he shouted.
Michael did not shout, but read in a louder, firmer voice, “And more I admire!”
Brutus’ right arm disappeared as well. Brutus was screaming now, “STOP OR I’LL — ”
Michael’s voice got even louder, “Thy distant fire!”
Brutus legs went up in a puff of smoke. “NO! YOU CANNOT — ”
“Than that colder, lowly light!”
PHOOM. PSP. SHHHHHH.
Smoke, ashes, blackened bits of books glided upwards and downwards in dizzying spirals. Brutus was gone.
Sylvia gaped in silence.
Michael was equally baffled. “It was a poem,” he began, “Evening Star. Edgar Allen Poe wrote it.”
Slowly, things started to make sense in Sylvia’s head. She started slowly, “It was beautiful.”
“Yes,” replied Michael, “the poem sure was. I don’t know about Brutus.”
Sylvia continued. “No, That’s it. The poem was everything Brutus was not.” Sylvia was getting excited. “Beautiful! Its words had wisdom and truth, a sort of lusty calm within them. Wow, that’s some power.”
Michael understood, but was still baffled. He looked around him and surveyed a dusty, cindery, ashy, messed-up library.
“Mrs. Pots, how would you like to join me for coffee?”
“Michael,” Sylvia began sheepishly, “I poured all the coffee out. On you.”
Michael scrunched his eyebrows. “Yes, indeed you did.” One moment later, he asked, “Come now, Mrs. Pots, there’s a delightful little shop around the corner. Care to join?”
Sylvia smiled a big smile. Michael extended his arm, and Sylvia put her arm around it. Together the dusty pair walked out of the wing, through the blackened lobby, and out the front entrance.
Pat-pat-pat sounded their shoes as they strolled by strangers who stared at their bedraggled, half-burnt appearance. Foosh-woosh swished the clouds of dust and cinder from their clothes. Sip-sip-sip went their mouths as they had coffee and smiled at each other.
Illustration by Lacey Anderson.
Edward J. Atkinson
Edward J. Atkinson is a Canadian graphic designer living outside Washington, D.C., operating the small design firm Rapscallion Designs. He is currently the Executive Editor and Creative Director for Mind Sprocket. Edward strongly believes the answer to life is food. He favors pirates as a close second.
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